Thief in the Night
by Guiltipleasures
Summary: A simple burglary goes horribly wrong. The kidnapping that ensues doesn't turn out as planned, either. /Thiefshipping/
1. Chapter 1

**It's hard to find good Thiefshipping, and this story just came to me out of nowhere, so I decided to give it a go. Just so everyone is aware, this is my first Yugioh fanfic.**

**Yami Bakura will henceforth be known as Bakura Touzoku, or simply Bakura. Also, I screwed up some of the ages. Marik and Isis are the age they were in Battle City, but Rishid is around the same age as Marik, and Bakura is a few years older than Isis.**

**Alright, let's see how this goes.**

* * *

His alarm was blaring. He desperately wanted to ignore it. How long had it been going off now? He was going to be late if he didn't get up soon. With great difficulty and a languished sigh, Marik dragged himself out of bed.

Bleary vision was met with empty rooms illuminated only by the faint orange sunlight that seeped through the windows. Marik didn't mind the cold floors or the silent halls; he actually preferred the house when no one else was there. He was used to it after all this time. His older sister, Isis, had moved away for college a couple of years back, leaving Marik to live alone with their father. Even though he knew that she couldn't have taken him with her, part of Marik never quite forgave her for leaving him. As for his father, Marik remembered that he would be staying late at the museum that night. Some sort of board meeting, or something equally monotonous. It wasn't much, but knowing that he'd have a few extra hours to himself when he got home from school elevated Marik's spirits to an extent.

He threw on some clothes and swallowed a couple of slices of toast for his breakfast. It went down rough, scratching his—it now came to his attention—swollen throat. Great. He didn't need to be falling sick now. He pressed the back of his hand against his forehead. It was hard to tell, but it felt a little warm.

Hm. Was there anything important going on at school that day? Well, if he had to be honest, Marik didn't really care what was going on that or any other day. The only thing that kept school from seeming a complete waste was that it was the only time he ever saw Rishid.

Though they were technically cousins, Marik never saw much of his mother's side of the family. After she had died his father had made no attempts to maintain anything amounting to a relationship with that half of Marik's family. It was lucky, then, that he and Rishid went to the same school, because he was Marik's only real friend. They didn't have the same schedule, because Rishid was a grade above Marik, but they always saw each other before and after class and during lunch.

That day, even the thought of seeing Rishid didn't motivate Marik to get ready that morning. He leaned against the kitchen counter languidly and stared at the clock, watching the second hand go _tik tik tik_, figuring just how badly he didn't want to go to school. It was already November, and Marik hadn't missed a single day so far. He could afford to skip. Just this once. At least he had an excuse—if he took the liberty of exaggerating his illness somewhat, but still. His only real concern was his father, who would certainly be angry when he found out, but Marik was confident that he could fool him into believing that he was actually sick. As a compromise with the more deferential side of himself, Marik made it a point to remember to work on homework later that morning.

He stretched out on the couch to watch TV, but early morning television didn't keep his interest for long. It was barely after seven, which was also the time that he would normally be on the street corner catching the bus, when he went back to his room and took out his laptop. In the following hours of mindless browsing and asinine entertainment, it became more and more clear to him that this free day was going to be very long, and very dull.

At one point that morning, the doorbell rang. Marik absentmindedly wondered who it could be, but he didn't feel like going all the way downstairs to check. It wasn't like he or his father would be expecting anyone around this time of day, so it probably wasn't important.

The doorbell rang again, but Marik ignored it. He was 'sick'.

One last time, one more ring. Someone was persistent. Marik closed his laptop with a sigh and went to the window. He peeked through the blinds to view the front of the house, but he saw no one.

They must've given up.

Marik sat down at his desk. Having exhausted his means for amusing himself, he resorted to an alternation between doodling in his school books and actually attempting to do homework, all while trying not to fall asleep. He constantly massaged his throat. It had only gotten more swollen and irritated as the day had progressed and, while probably not warranting his skipping school, it was annoying as all hell. It was difficult to concentrate on anything else, and finally, when he couldn't take it anymore, he leapt out of his chair and went to the bathroom. They had to have something that would make this thing go away.

He opened the medicine cabinet and scanned the labels until he spotted a bottle of Tylenol. He grabbed it, but stopped there.

Had there been a noise?

Just a second ago, Marik thought for sure that he'd heard the sound of a door closing. He stayed as still as he could and listened. He slowly pressed the cabinet closed and leaned towards the bathroom door, waiting for a sound. There was nothing.

For his own peace of mind, though he was sure he'd imagined it, Marik went downstairs. He stepped softly with bare feet. Stopping in the living room, he arched his neck to see into the back of the kitchen and caught a glimpse of of a head of wild, white hair.

There was a man. A man he didn't know was inside his house. Just in the other room.

Fear gripped him and froze him in place. He tried to command his body, _'Run!'_

He couldn't be seen. But he couldn't move.

_'Run!'_

Though it was only a few seconds that he wasted, it was too long. The man turned around, a look of panic briefly flashing across his face before he took out a gun. "Don't you take one fucking step!"

_'I lost my chance,' _Marik thought, certain he was about to lose much more. The man stomped toward him, his head down, his eyes glaring from underneath his thick, white bangs. Marik prepared himself for when the bullet would explode from the barrel and tear into his chest. He waited for pain, followed by darkness, cold, death. He felt only the shaking of his hands and knees. The man glared at him.

"God dammit," the robber hissed, rubbing the back of his neck. He was holding a black trash bag, but he let it fall to the ground. He kept his eyes fixed on Marik almost entirely, but he stole tiny glances around the room. He was looking for something, but was afraid that Marik might get away if took his eyes off him for more than a second, though Marik was too terrified to even blink. "Alright," the man said, waving the gun. "Get on the floor. Lie on your stomach and keep your head down."

Marik, struggling to keep his movements steady and prevent himself from simply collapsing, did as he was told. The plush carpet fibers itched his cheek, and he felt dangerously vulnerable at the burglar's feet. He squeezed his eyes shut and let the vibrations from the steps that paced around the room echo in his skull. "God fucking dammit," the thief cursed under his breath. After a long pause, "Are there any cable ties in this house?"

His mind clouded by fear, Marik didn't even understand the words being spoken to him. "W-what?" he choked out.

"Cable ties! You know, the fucking nylon zip-ties that—" the man stopped short and growled.

Marik tried to stay focused. "I think, uh, there might be some in the garage."

"The garage?" He cast a glance to the door at the back of the kitchen. "Alright, get up."

Marik eased himself up slowly, still shaking, not sure if he was even breathing. The man grabbed his arm, pinching the flesh in-between his fingers, and forced him to walk in front. The cold barrel of the gun pressed against his head. The burglar led him to the door and told him to open it. Once in the garage, the man demanded, "Where's the light?"

Marik pointed back at the door, saying it was on the other side of the wall. The robber reached behind and flipped the switch. "Okay, where are the ties?"

"I . . . I-I think they're in that tool box. Over there."

"Stay here." He pushed Marik against the wall and slowly backed towards the tool box, keeping his gun raised. "Don't move."

It would be so easy, Marik thought, to run back inside the house, to lock the thief in the garage, to go call the police. And yet, he couldn't urge his body to move. He didn't think he still had the strength to run. His courage was failing him, abandoning him to the will of this burglar. The only thing he did was watch every movement that the man pointing the gun at him made, all the while thinking that at any moment it would all be over. The man rummaged through the top drawer filled with nuts, bolts, and screws and found a torn-open package of zip-ties. He slammed the box closed, the package in his left fist, and stalked over to Marik. The boy hadn't moved an inch.

He forced Marik to turn around and pulled his arms back, tying his wrists together tightly with the black nylon fastener. Then he pushed him back into the house and made him lay down in the kitchen, where he tied his ankles together the same way. "Please," Marik murmured against the tile. "Anything in this house, anything that's of any value, is my father's. I don't care if you take it. I won't talk to the police, I won't tell them what you look like, just don't—"

"Shut up. I'm not going to kill you."

Marik remained unconvinced. He bit his tongue to hold back the sobs that threatened to escape his throat. "What, what are you going to do?"

The thief sighed and rose to his feet, stuffing the package of zip-ties in his back pocket. He left Marik on the floor while he strode through the rest of the house to see what he could steal. That brat had wasted a good chunk of his time already, he needed to hurry up. He thought this house would be an easy job, but things were rapidly turning disastrous. He threw the small things, such as watches and jewelry and cell phones, into the garbage bag while tucking laptops under his arms and taking mental notes on where the larger things, like the TV and stereo, were. Halfway through the top floor with the garbage bag, he checked the clock. It was nearly eleven thirty.

He opened the garage door, went out to the car that he'd parked at the side of the house, and threw everything into the trunk. He then pulled the car up into the garage and closed the door behind it, ensuring no one would see the rest of his crime, save for one. On his second trip, he picked up a pair of socks from one of the bedrooms and, returning to the kitchen, stuffed the socks in Marik's mouth to gag him. Flinging the teenager over his shoulder was a bit more difficult than expected—he was heavier than his size suggested—but it was doable. In the next few minutes he had Marik lying down on the floor of the back of his car. He hesitated a moment, looking over the scene, letting it fully sink in that he was about to kidnap this boy. He was stealing a human being.

In his own defense, he wasn't given much choice.

Using more zip-ties, he fastened Marik's bonds to the underside of the back seats. There was no time to spare after that. It was already twenty till twelve. The thief took a last glance at the house and slammed his fist against the car in rage. "Fucking little—!" He slammed the back door shut.

Between the gag that choked him and the terror that clenched his insides, Marik thought for sure he would throw up. He sank down into the coarse rug that covered the floor of the car, part of him wishing he would just pass out and forget that this was happening.

The garage door opened. Marik felt the car sink down with the thief's weight settling in the driver's seat. The front car door slammed shut. There was the turn of the ignition. The engine revved. The car started backing out of the driveway. Marik turned his head up so that he could see red and orange treetops, barely stirring in the moaning breeze. As the car slunk down the street, Marik kept his eyes on the trees and the light-posts and whatever else he could spot from below the seat, watching the world whisk by, thinking of when he'd be met with sights unfamiliar to him. Then the world faded to black around him.

...

He opened his eyes to throbbing pain and the vague notion that several hours had passed. He only assumed that he'd finally passed out, sometime, because he didn't know where the time had gone. He rested his head against the back of the driver's seat, trying to find some comfort in the low roar and vibration of the car as it sped down whatever road they were on by this point, but it only gave him a pounding headache. His throat was swollen and irritated, more so now than it was earlier, and his head felt like it was stuffed with 20 lbs of cotton, bursting at the seams. His whole body was cramped and aching, and then there was that constant, dull weight of apprehension that enveloped him almost to the point of mercifully numbing him, but not quite.

As miserable as it was, the state he was in, he didn't want this to end—the car ride. Because as long as he was on the floor, as long as they were on the road, the man who had kidnapped him wasn't visible, wasn't looking at him, wasn't speaking to him, wasn't aiming his gun at him. Marik didn't know what would happen once the car stopped.

The thief,—Bakura Touzoku—as the adrenaline and panic all but dissipated, devoted the drive to deep thought on the situation he was now facing. It had all happened faster then he was able to process. He had been a simple house robber just a few hours before, and now he was a kidnapper. And, _fuck_, what was he supposed to do now?

As much as he wanted to be done with the boy, there was no feasible way to do that. He couldn't let him go now. Marik knew his face, his voice. And Bakura had already fucking abducted him. If Marik somehow got away, there would be no stopping him from going to the police, and then Bakura would go to jail for burglary and aggravated kidnapping. He could expect no less than ten years, maybe twice that. Killing the brat, for now, wasn't an option. Murder would earn him much worse than ten measly years.

But he couldn't keep the kid indefinitely!

How was he supposed to prevent him from running away? How was he supposed to keep him hidden from the police? He couldn't just tie him up, throw him in his closet, and forget him there. Though, that was tempting.

And, even if Marik seemed like a boy to Bakura, he wasn't some snot-nosed little kid. He was a teenager. He was smaller than Bakura, but not by much. If it came down to brute strength, Bakura wasn't sure if he could physically over-power him. Marik was maybe even smart. He would constantly be plotting an escape, and the idea that Bakura would have to combat that for God knows how long was in itself exhausting.

Bakura tried to clear his mind. First thing first. Before anyone started looking for him, he had to hide Marik somewhere. He was reluctant to take him to where he lived, because he could lead the police directly to him should he escape, but Bakura realized that if he did escape it would make little difference if he knew where he lived or not. He pulled up into the familiar driveway, clicking the remote clamped to the sun visor above his head to open the garage door. He eased into the narrow space and commanded the garage door to close behind him.

Marik tensed as soon as they'd pulled in; hearing the engine shut off nearly stopped his heart. Very soon, too soon, the thief was opening the door at his feet and leaning over him with a pocket knife.

Bakura cut the cable tie that bound Marik to the car and the one around his ankles, then he stepped back. "I'm not fucking carrying you again," he growled. "Get up." For good measure, he pulled out his gun.

Marik did what Bakura said, reluctantly, and with difficulty, seeing as his hands were still bound. Out of the car, Bakura gripped his shoulder—Marik loathed the touch—and forced him to walk into the house.

They entered the kitchen, which was small and dark and smelled like rotting food. Marik tried not to breathe in the stench as they made their way through, but it never got better. Around the corner was a dingy bathroom, which turned out to be their destination. Bakura pushed Marik to the floor beside the sink and used another zip-tie to tie him to the exposed pipes. When he had made sure that the boy was secure, he stopped and looked him dead in the eye. Marik didn't want to look into those dark, burrowing eyes, but he was too afraid to look away. Suddenly, Bakura grabbed at Marik's pants and started shoving his hands into every single one of his pockets.

Marik jolted and squirmed, trying in vain to get away.

"I'm just emptying your pockets," Bakura spat. "You don't have a cell phone or anything with you, do you?" Marik figured he didn't have to answer, since Bakura continued to go through his pockets.

Finding nothing, the thief stood up, allowing Marik to breathe a little better. In that moment, he only wished Bakura wouldn't touch him, wouldn't get anywhere near him. It seemed like he was going to get his wish when Bakura turned away and started walking. As if he had forgotten that Marik was even there, he left the room and shut the door behind him.

In the dark, Marik listened to the dying footsteps and the hinges of a door opening and closing. He couldn't hear the car, but he heard the garage door. The sound of it opening echoed through the walls, and then a pause.

It closed. Silence.

Marik was alone.

* * *

**Now I have three multi-chapter fics in progress. Dear Lord, what have I gotten myself into.**

**Oh! Also, the cover image is my own work.**

**I'm kind of experimenting with this idea, so I would love some feedback to know what you all think.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm not very good at writing fluffy, lovey-dovey romances. Don't expect much in this story. There will be some sweet moments, but a lot of it will be very dysfunctional. (What did you expect?)**

**Also, this story does contains abuse. (Since we're dealing with Marik here, I'm sure you all saw that coming.) Bakura isn't abusive, though. Well, erhm, not that much. If you want to be technical, kidnapping a kid and leaving him tied up in a dirty bathroom all day, or just the tying up and leaving him in general, would fall under abuse, so . . . there's that.**

* * *

Marik hated the dark. Everything dangerous and terrible became all too viable if he couldn't be sure that it wasn't there. Anxiety and paranoia were amplified by the grim memories that being locked in a small room resurfaced.

It was pointless to struggle against the bonds, but he tried. Only for a few minutes. He couldn't break them, he had nothing to cut them with, and he could feel his strength depleting by the minute. It was a horrible position that he was in, with his hands raised behind his back and fastened tightly against the pipes. He leaned forward and pressed his chin to his chest to keep from bumping his head against the sink. His legs were stretched out in front of him, his feet planted against the wall.

His muscles burned and ached. A sticky film of sweat coated his skin, and yet he was shivering. Marik couldn't tell whether this was his body going into shock or if he was actually very sick. It was hard to think when all his mind seemed to focus on was the pain.

What was going to happen to him? He didn't want to imagine in too much detail the horrible possibilities. All the stories that he'd ever heard about kidnappings had never had much impact on him till now. No, he couldn't let himself think about that. He didn't know how much time he had until his kidnapper returned.

If he did return. Was this even his house? No, it had to be his house, or how did they get in? But what if it wasn't? This place hardly seemed suitable for living. Maybe he didn't plan on coming back. What if he'd just left Marik to die? In this dark, disgusting bathroom. He would die, and no one would ever find him. Oh, God.

He had to escape. He had to try to find a way out.

Maybe he could call out for help. But would anyone hear him? Would anyone try to help him?

He opened his mouth and let out a raspy, strained, "Help."

His voice was too quiet. He tried again.

_"Help."_

With his throat sore and his energy waning, Marik could barely manage his normal speaking voice. He gave everything he could with one last, "Help!" and was sure no one heard it.

It was a long shot, anyway.

Marik would have to rely on his own ability to save himself. There had to be more that he could do, he had to be able to find another way. If his kidnapper came back, Marik thought he might be able to fight him. The man wasn't that tall or muscular, and Marik had to believe he stood a chance. If his kidnapper didn't come back, then . . . he didn't know what he would do, but he would have at least a few days to make some attempts.

Marik went through scenarios in his head in which he could trick or outmatch the thief until the moment he heard the sound of the garage door. The initial relief when realizing he hadn't been abandoned in an empty house was quickly replaced by revulsion at knowing that his kidnapper had returned, and then fear that maybe he hadn't come back alone. The man could very well have accomplices, and if that was the case then Marik's chances of escape would drop considerably. He listened to the footsteps that passed by the bathroom door, casting a shadow over the spaces between the frame.

There was only one person in the house. The kidnapper had come back alone.

Bakura had just returned from selling the stolen lot from the Ishtar residence to a nearby pawnshop, the same one he always used. The people there were very familiar with him and what he did, and Bakura was confident in their good sense to not double cross him. They would sell his spoils to other pawnshops across town and make a pretty penny for themselves, so they had nothing to complain about. No one minded turning a blind eye for profit.

On his way back, Bakura had made a few stops to pick up some necessary equipment; he'd bought boards, a hammer, and nails from a hardware store, and handcuffs from a place called _Bizarre Bazaar_.

Marik could hear the hammer pounding against wood from the other side of the house. He listened intently to the foreboding beats for what felt like an hour. Then they stopped. The footsteps returned. The bathroom door opened and Bakura stepped in to turn on the light.

"Alright, let's go." He knelt beside Marik and cut the tie that bound him to the plumbing with his pocket knife. Marik's hands were still tied behind his back, but he had to act regardless. He didn't know where the thief was taking him, and this was possibly his last opportunity for escape.

When Bakura grabbed his shoulder to hoist him up, Marik lunged. He threw himself at the thief, shoving him against the wall, knocking him to the floor. He threw himself too hard. Without his arms to maintain balance, without his hands to catch himself, Marik lost his footing. He tried to stumble out of the room, but he came crashing down to the floor. His shoulder endured the brunt of it, but Marik didn't have time to worry about injury. He had to stand up.

He raised himself to his knees. Just before he could fully stand, he was grabbed by his ankles and pulled back down to the floor. His head smashed against the tile.

Marik cried out, in desperation, in pain. He tried to keep going, to somehow crawl away, but he was already caught. Bakura was at his side now, grabbing his arm, dragging him across the cold, grimy floor.

Any sort of energy that Marik might have had was drained. His eyes fluttered, trying to stay open, but it hardly mattered. His eyes wouldn't focus on anything. It felt like Bakura was tearing his arm from his socket as he pulled him into one of three rooms down the hall. Bakura threw Marik onto the bed and pulled the black handcuffs out from his pocket.

Bakura leaned against the bed frame, looming over Marik. "Let me explain to you how this works," he said with malice dripping from his words. He snapped one end of the handcuffs around Marik's left wrist. "You don't want to die, and I don't want to have to kill you. As long as you don't start any _shit_ then the situation works out in both our favors." He took the other ring and clamped it to the wire bed frame. Only then did he cut the tie that bound Marik's hands. "You don't get hurt. I don't get my hands bloody. But piss me off," he stepped back and raised his gun to aim at Marik's head, "and I can guarantee you'll regret it. So, you're going to do whatever I tell you to. Understand?"

Marik glared up at him defiantly. _'Yeah. Like hell.'_

Bakura wasn't pleased with the reaction. He narrowed his eyes at the boy. "You're not really in a position to get cheeky, kid."

Maybe he was testing his luck, but since Bakura hadn't seriously injured him yet Marik garnered a certain boldness. He looked down the barrel of the gun, wondering if Bakura had ever actually fired it. Despite the finger that rested on the trigger, Marik hadn't noticed Bakura touch the safety or even cock the gun.

With the pistol inches away from his face, it was easy to see where the black paint was rubbing off, revealing a few specks of the orange tip. Marik stared at it.

Orange tip? _'That bastard . . . '_

"Your gun," he said in a hoarse whisper. "It's fake."

_'That bastard kidnapped me with a fake gun.'_

Bakura wasn't perturbed by Marik's realization. He smirked, letting his pistol fall to his side. "That doesn't mean I can't or won't kill you if you cause me any trouble."

"Then why don't you do it already and get it over with?" Marik taunted.

"Say that to me again after I've found a place to dump your body and I'll be more than willing to oblige you." It wasn't in Bakura's nature to rush into anything. Whatever he decided to do with this boy, whether it be to murder him or something entirely different, he needed time for careful planning. There could be no room for error. But as it was, "I may actually not have to resort to killing you. That's only the worst case scenario. Believe it or not, but I'd prefer to keep my record unmarred by the blood of children."

"You mean your record of petty theft and kidnapping?"

Bakura chuckled. "You know, I could always cut the tongue from that smart mouth of yours."

Marik sat up, glowering under his ashen bangs. _'I'd bite your fingers off.'_

The thief's eyes flitted to Marik's forehead and he raised a brow. His hand reached up and pushed the boy's hair out of his face.

Marik flinched. "Don't."

"Shut up, you're bleeding."

He was? It must have been from when he busted his head against the bathroom floor. With everything else that was happening he hadn't even noticed. But even so, what did it matter?

Marik relaxed once Bakura removed his hand and left the room, but was resentful that he returned with a washcloth and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He tilted the boy's head up and brushed his bangs away to closer examine the injury. To Marik, the contact between them felt like needles poking into his flesh. _'Stop touching me. Stop freaking touching me.'_

"It's not too bad," Bakura muttered. "It doesn't look like you need stitches. Just try not to get blood on anything."

He dampened a corner of the cloth with peroxide and dabbed it against the cut on Marik's forehead. It stung like hell, but at the same time the cool washcloth against his feverish skin felt wonderful. Marik found himself wishing he could fall into a cold pool of water, wash himself, and then fall asleep under thick, warm blankets.

Marik glared into the thief's eyes. He knew this was false kindness. He knew that Bakura's gentle touch was deceptive. He could tell just by looking at the callous expression on his face. Marik wouldn't be made compliant so easily.

While cleaning the wound, it came to Bakura's attention how sickly Marik looked and how hot his skin was. He frowned, and feeling Marik's forehead with the back of his hand he cursed under his breath. "Don't tell me . . . "

"Are you done?" Marik snapped.

He was startled when Bakura suddenly exclaimed, "_You little shit!_"

The man threw the washcloth down and marched off, cursing to himself the entire time.

"I swear to God, if I get sick because of you . . . "

While Bakura was gone, Marik took the opportunity to inspect his new handcuffs. They weren't like the cuffs that a police officer would use, though they looked similar. They were thankfully more comfortable than the cable ties, covered in a smooth, rubber-like casing. Marik could assume what these were normally used for, and it made his stomach turn. He tugged at them. He knew he wouldn't be able to break them, but he allowed himself to hope that, for whatever reason, they hadn't locked properly.

No such luck.

Bakura returned and held out two white pills to him. Marik wrinkled his nose at them and the thief sighed. "It's medicine."

_'Sure it is.'_

"Take the damn pills or I'll shove them down your throat."

"Why?"

"Because you're annoying enough as it is without me having to nurse your pathetic ass."

Marik didn't need pills. He needed nourishment, fluids, and rest. He didn't expect Bakura to really give a crap, though, so he reluctantly took the pills. They hurt going down his dry, swollen throat, but he took them. Bakura nodded, looking no more pleased than he ever did, and went to the door. As if it was necessary, he locked it behind him.

Marik surveyed the room he was in, trying to come up with an idea. Any idea at all. The room was shabby, like the rest of the house, and it would have been completely bare if it wasn't for the rickety bed he sat on, the mattress covered only by a single blanket. The one window in the room had been boarded up. He couldn't see outside, and no one outside would see him. Except for the closet door at the other end of the room, there wasn't anything else besides dust.

There was nothing he could do. He couldn't even try to call out for help, because the only person who would hear him would be his kidnapper. Marik was a little bit grateful to be so weak, because it was the only thing now that prevented him from crying. He simply couldn't gather the energy.

He felt his body start to give up. He needed sleep. It was the only thing that he could think of that might be comforting, and he was so tired. There was nothing else he could do at the moment, anyway. And he really was very sick.

He curled up on the edge of the bed and let sleep take him away.

* * *

**This one's a little short.**

**Also, this just got dangerously close to a hurt/comfort fic. How did that happen? Oh, well . . .**

**There is a real store called Bizarre Bazaar near my house that I have visited only once, and not by choice. Just so you know.**

**Anyway, I'm kind of worried about the way this chapter turned out. (O-O). I feel like the tone is so inconsistent. (T.T) I did my best.**


	3. Chapter 3

**AU Bakura isn't as uncaring and murderous as he would otherwise be—not that he wants Marik to know that.**

**Also, let me say a few things about Amber Alerts. Not all missing children get Amber Alerts. I don't know how many people actually know that, but it's only reserved for special cases. Marik is just young enough so that he could get one (you have to be 17 or younger), but unfortunately for him the police don't have a good description of Bakura or the car he was driving because of lack of witnesses. This is one of the criteria that has to be met to issue an Amber Alert. So, at this time the police have very little to go on, which makes Marik of low priority. **

* * *

Bakura was never very hungry in the mornings, and there wasn't much to eat in the house anyway, so he settled for coffee. Making a mental note to go to the store later that day, he sauntered to the living room and reclined on the couch. He'd turned the TV on, mostly for background noise, but also because he couldn't help but be a little bit paranoid. The local news was on and he wanted to see if anyone mentioned Marik. Bakura was nearly positive that no one had seen anything, but there was always a possibility. Even if someone had just noticed his white Charger parked outside the Ishtar house and thought it was strange enough to be memorable, he would be utterly screwed—unless he had ample time to dump it somewhere, but that was wishing for a lot.

So far, there was no talk of missing teenagers. Bakura, unappeased, went to his computer and searched recent news articles. Typing in "Amber Alert" brought up no results for Marik. _That_ was relieving. He then searched for "missing child Marik Ishtar". Scrolling down, he found a very short article that had been published the night before. All it really said was that Marik's father had reported the burglary and the kidnapping of his only son, and that the police were asking everyone to keep an eye out for the missing teen. It included two sentences describing Marik's appearance and a rather out-dated photo. There was nothing to indicate that they had any leads. Nothing about Bakura.

He shut down his computer and told himself not to worry so much. After all, why had he been so successful at what he did all these years? Middle class society, in their comfortable suburban homes, thriving in mere mediocrity, were so manipulable. They were always either too trusting, too careless, or too preoccupied. All the alarms that weren't set up, all the doors and windows that were left unlocked. These people were just asking to be taken advantage of.

A loud fit of coughing came from the back of the house and Bakura groaned. He was thankful, at least, that the police had nothing going for them when it came to finding Marik. That gave Bakura as much time as he wanted to figure out what to do with him.

This kid . . . just what the hell _was_ he going to do with him?

Bakura massaged his temples and concentrated. There was nothing he could do, aside from killing the boy, to be absolutely certain that he wouldn't send him to jail. In theory, killing him would be simple. Forensics were only as good as the records they kept, and Bakura had managed to stay off their records thus far. He could be careful about it, hide the body where no one would find it. And even if someone did dig it up, there would be no evidence. Nothing to convict him with, nothing to tie him to the boy's death at all. But that was all theory. In reality, it would be much more difficult than that.

He ran his fingers through his mane of hair. This should never have happened. He wished to God that he had never gone into that house. If only wishing ever did any good.

Did he really have to be stuck with this brat? Was there no other way? And what would that mean? He couldn't keep Marik locked in that room forever. Marik couldn't grow up here, couldn't have a life here. Was Bakura going to have to _take care_ of him? Bakura didn't know how to take care of anyone but himself.

A part of him was starting to wish that he was capable of murder. It would make things so much easier.

Bakura got up and grabbed his coat off the rack by the front door. He didn't have time to sit here and brood over this shit. Before heading out the door, he turned down the hallway and stopped in front of the room Marik was in. His fist was raised, ready to knock. He was about to tell him through the door that he was going to be gone for a while, but he caught himself.

"Fucking pointless," he muttered under his breath, turning on his heel.

Bakura left the house, got in his car, and sped off down the road. There was a nice one-story house in a subdivision a couple of hours away that had caught his attention, and he needed to draft out a plan for it. He didn't intend to act until sometime at the end of the month, but he needed to start preparing.

Traffic was getting heavy. The roads were full of people on their way to work, trucks making deliveries, and school buses carting loads of children. Everyone had schedules to keep, everyone had obligations. Even Bakura, in his own way. His just weren't what anyone would consider estimable. Though, he rather liked it that way.

The target house wasn't too new, probably a few decades old at least. That was preferable. It was white, brick, with a gray roof and a lovely young couple living inside. Bakura parked a few mailboxes down the street, just close enough to have a good view of the front of the house. The husband had already left for work some time before, probably the same time as when Bakura first dropped by, and probably the same time as always. (Bakura would make more visits in the future just to be sure.) The wife was still inside. Bakura lit up a cigarette and counted the minutes until the she would leave.

There was a blue sign posted in the flower bed that encompassed the house warning him of an alarm system. Bakura had a tendency to assume that these signs were only for show,—they often were—but he never ignored them.

About half an hour after Bakura discarded his burned up cig, the woman stepped out of the house. She locked the front door behind her before walking down the driveway and getting in her car, leaving the house empty. The couple had no dogs, no kids. Bakura had checked for this already last time by knocking on the front door and peeking inside the windows, searching for movement, listening. The whole neighborhood, by this time, was empty and quiet, so Bakura went to work. He pulled up in front of the house and shut off his engine.

With confidence, he strode up to the front door, keeping an eye open for any obvious hiding places for a spare key. The only place where one might be was under the doormat, and after flipping that over to find nothing Bakura figured there wasn't one. That was alright. It would've been way too easy if there was.

Bakura rung the doorbell and waited. He couldn't hear any movement. He hadn't heard movement when he'd rung the doorbell at the Ishtar house, either. Erring on the side of caution, he peered through the front windows. No lights. He rung a second time, but there was no sound or sign of life from inside the house, so he made his away around to the backyard. It was enclosed by a privacy fence, but that didn't matter. In fact, it was better for Bakura, really. It didn't prevent him from getting inside, but it did give him the peace of mind that no one would see him. He experimentally pulled at the handle, but it was locked. No windows on this side for the house next door, and the shrubbery around here made a nice cover. It was simple enough for him to climb over the fence to get into the yard.

Once safely in the back, Bakura walked the perimeter to see if any windows or doors were unlocked, looking for easy access routes. He was also on the lookout for cameras. It wouldn't be the first time he'd run into those, though they were thankfully uncommon. Luckily, he had spotted the camera above the front door before actually probing the house and was able to walk away. With this house, he hadn't seen a camera at the front or side of the house, which probably meant that there wouldn't be one at the back.

There wasn't.

It came as an interesting surprise to learn that not one of the windows or doors were left unlocked. Bakura might've applauded the young couple for their foresight, if it made any difference.

He crouched down by the back door, reached into his pocket, and drew out a screwdriver and a ring of keys. This was the moment that would decide it; whether or not this would be his next house. Bakura was going to bump the lock, and he was fully prepared to hightail it straight out of there should an alarm actually go off.

He slipped one of his bump keys, an o-ring wrapped around the base to prevent it from going in all the way, into the lock. His heart thumped loudly in his chest with anticipation. He exhaled slowly and gripped the thin metal of the screwdriver in his right hand. His left hand was ready to turn the key.

He dived, tapping the key with the butt end of the screwdriver, jerking the key ever so slightly to the right after each bump.

_Click_.

No alarm screamed at him. The door was open, the house was silent, and it was just waiting for him. As tempting as it was to go in now, as exciting as the idea was to Bakura, he would bide his time. There was no rush. He didn't like to perform in quick succession in case it would draw attention to his crimes. And at the moment, he _really_ didn't need to advertise.

He locked the door. No sign of a forced entry, no sign that anyone had been there at all. He climbed back over the fence and returned to his car feeling very pleased with what he'd accomplished. Bakura rolled his windows down to feel the rushing air as he drove out of the subdivision and on to the highway. God, he really did feel good; he never got over the thrill that his job gave him, or the satisfaction that came with each success. He was—he knew he was—very good at being a thief. He had many years of avoiding arrest and a criminal record to prove it.

However, this only served to make his one mistake all that more infuriating.

It never should have happened. Maybe Bakura had been careless, maybe he could've done something differently and prevented all this, but at the same time it was complete bullshit that Marik should be home sick the very day that he chose to rob that house. And now, instead of going back to a house that was all his, where he could be by himself and do whatever he pleased, he was going back to the teenager he'd handcuffed in one of the spare bedrooms who had the flu.

Bakura walked in the front door and went immediately to the fridge to get something to eat, only to be reminded upon opening it that he really needed to go to the store. The only things inside that were edible were some cheese, a couple slices of deli meat, a few apples, and a jug of water. He scanned the bare shelves, typing up a list of the things he needed on his phone. Milk. Eggs. Bread. Juice.

Marik started coughing again.

Beer. Lots of beer.

The pantry was nearly empty as well, so he added some things he'd get to restock that.

Before leaving again, after much mental debate, he went to Marik's room. He jiggled the lock, because it never seemed to want to open properly, and he stuck his head inside. Marik was curled up into a pathetic, shivering ball on the bed. Bakura moved closer to see if he was awake. The boy's eyes were closed, his dark lashes curled against his flushed cheeks. He breathed noisily through his mouth, in and out. His blond hair, damp with sweat from the fever, clung to his bronze face and neck.

It was entirely ridiculous, Bakura thought, that a very male teenager could manage to look so . . . pretty.

Bakura sat on the edge of the mattress and gently shook Marik's shoulder. The boy's round, violet eyes fluttered open and stared back at him. They tried to hide any visible trace of fear, even as Marik backed away. "I'm going to the store," Bakura said gruffly. "Is there anything you want?"

Marik hardened his stare. "What?"

"Food. Or, whatever. What do you want?"

He didn't seem to understand. Most likely, he couldn't believe the arguably (given the situation) considerate gesture wasn't some sort of trick.

When Marik remained silent for too long, Bakura threw up his hands. "Fine," he said. "Starve for all I care."

He left after that, but he wasn't at the store for very long. Getting groceries was a chore that he despised, and he avoided wasting much time on it. It wasn't like it was an enormous inconvenience, and maybe his hatred for it was petty, but he blamed it on the people. He would like a lot of things in his life better, actually, if they involved less people. Stupid people and their stupid lives filled with stupid problems. The whole lot of them were positively hateful.

While at the store, he'd picked up some canned soup, because it seemed the most appropriate food to give to someone who was sick. He'd also opted for the less hazardous plastic cutlery and paper bowls. If Marik decided to do anything, like throw the soup at his head,—and he could just see him doing it, too—the results would be considerably less injurious . He didn't know what the teenager could accomplish with a real spoon, but he was sure he didn't want to give him the opportunity.

He warmed the soup in a pot over the stove before pouring it in a bowl and taking it to Marik's room.

Marik jumped at the signature jiggling of the lock. He sat up slowly. His aching body felt sluggish and stiff, the sickness combined with sleeping on a lumpy mattress not being kind to him at all.

"Here." The thief was standing beside the bed and offering him a bowl. Marik's stomach growled at the first sight of food in almost two days. He carefully took the bowl in his hands and almost said 'Thank you' before stopping himself. Bakura stood by, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes focused as Marik raised the spoon to his lips and blew on the hot soup. Marik stopped and shot him a glare as cutting as a dagger. "What?"

"What?" Marik snapped back.

He nearly shouted. "_What_?_ What_ are you glaring at me for?!"

"I don't like being stared at."

Pretentious brat. "I wasn't—I wasn't staring _at_ you, I was just . . . " Bakura muttered several curses, but essentially dropped the protest. He had been staring at Marik. "Whatever." He stomped out of the room and locked the door behind him.

Marik's hopes sank with the sound of the turning bolt. If only his kidnapper didn't feel the need, if only he would forget just once. While Bakura had been out of the house that day, Marik had tried to slip out of his restraints. The cuffs weren't too tight around his wrists, and he started thinking that, if he had any hope left at all, it might be possible. His entire left hand was chafed from the inside of the handcuffs rubbing it up and down, over and over. It wasn't easy or painless, but Marik found that he _could_ get out of the handcuffs. He could hardly believe it the first time it happened. He'd put them back on to make sure he could take them off again. He did it a couple more times after that to see how fast he could get out of them. As he'd practiced, he'd estimated his best time at just under a minute.

Since Bakura was out of the room, Marik allowed himself to relax and eat in peace.

He'd searched the entire room for anything that he could use to pick the lock with, but he hadn't found anything. It probably wouldn't have done much good anyway, since he'd never actually picked a lock before, so he'd moved on to something else. He couldn't tear down the boards on the window. He had tried. Maybe if he was at full strength he could kick open the door. While he was sick, though, the only thing he could think of was to wait for an opportunity. He didn't want to try and fight Bakura off, though he stood a much better chance with the use of his hands. He'd prefer to wait for a better opportunity than that, but it would all depend on what presented itself first. If he thought he could win, if he saw a good chance, he would take it.

The soup had the distinct flavor of aluminum, but it was food, so Marik ate it all.

It agitated him, having to wait like this. There wasn't much else he could do, though. So he ate and stared at the door and waited.

* * *

**I know nothing about cars. I just went to Google Image, saw a Dodge Charger, and thought, "That looks like a Bakura car."**

**This chapter could be a really good guide for how to avoid getting your house robbed. Or a really good guide on how to become a house robber. Depending on who you are.**

**Really, though, all of the things in this chapter are either common sense stuff that any low class criminal, or anyone in general, should already know, or stuff that's just ridiculously easy to figure out with some quick research. (What one needs is the lack of conscious/desperation and skill to successfully pull this off.) Seriously, I learned about bumping locks on _Youtube_. I have no first hand experience with any of this.**

**Not like it's my responsibility to see that you don't abuse this knowledge, but consider this your warning—from some random stranger at the end of a Yugioh fanfiction—not to abuse this knowledge. Because that should do it.**

**A special thanks to MalikObeyMyRodIshtar for beta-reading this chapter.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Confession! I have no idea how long this story will be, because my outline is vague.**

**. . . :D**

**Hey, at least I'm not completely making this up as I go.**

* * *

The nightmares didn't come every night, but they were frequent. Frequent enough that the fear of them hovered over Marik whenever he closed his eyes. They never got better. They never went away, after all these years, and Marik always woke up after them feeling haunted. Like he was being pulled backwards by the unremitting reality, away from the morning. This night was no different.

He didn't jump or scream when he woke up. His eyes shot open, the echos of horrible laughter and his own cries ringing in his ears. He stared towards the ceiling, fixated on the placid darkness of the room. As the memory of the dream faded into nothing, Marik was left with only the sound of his pounding heart.

Being thrust back into the present was jarring, but Marik slowly recovered. He remembered where he was, what had happened to him, and he wished he didn't have to be awake anymore. But he wasn't ready for what might still be waiting for him in his dreams.

He rolled over on his side and his breath caught in his throat; Bakura was sitting in a chair just a few feet from the bed, leaning over and supporting his elbows on his knees.

Both of their sights were adjusted to darkness. Both were aware that the other was there, was awake, was looking back at him. Neither of them spoke. Marik's eyes fell on the kitchen knife that Bakura held in his hands, its silver blade catching the glint of moonlight that found its way through the cracks of the boarded window. The thief's fingers traced the curved edge and prodded the sharp tip. After taking a moment to let his mind catch up and realize what was going on, Marik stared at the face blanketed in shadow. It may have been the lack of lighting that softened Bakura's sharp features, but there was no confusing the reflection in his eyes for anything but genuine.

Marik turned on his other side, away from the thief. He couldn't forget that the man was in the room with a knife and watching him, but somehow, eventually, he did manage to go back to a fitful sleep.

...

When Marik woke up later, he was relieved to find that Bakura had gone. He listened carefully for any noise indicating that his kidnapper was still in the house. The walls were very thin, and Marik could always hear when Bakura had the TV on or was walking through the rooms. Sensing nothing, he decided it was safe to slip out of the handcuffs. He rolled out of bed, stretched, and paced around the room a bit. He'd never stayed in bed so long before, even the few times he was sick, and he found it to be terribly uncomfortable.

He went to the door and tried to turn the knob, hoping against hope that it would be unlocked. But of course, he dismayed, it wasn't. Still trapped.

Marik sighed. He spent several minutes just wandering about the room, making sure he hadn't missed anything that might prove useful. Anything small and metal, or something pointed, either to try his luck at lock picking or to use as some other sort of tool or weapon. It was odd, Marik thought, that the room was so empty. Then again, Bakura obviously lived alone, so that might've been the reason.

There was nothing on the floor, not even lying under the bed. The closet was empty, though Marik didn't really like looking in there. He'd noticed something the first time he'd looked in the closet, and at the time he'd thought it was just curious. The more he dwelt on it, though, the less curious and more creepy the image was. He thought about it every time he looked at the closet, and his eyes immediately went to it if he opened the door. Behind the wall, in the corner, almost out of sight, were drawings in red and blue crayon. A little kid's drawings.

He shook his head and forced the thought from his mind, making his way back to the bed. Moving around too much was nauseating, and he was weak enough as it was. He lied back down and tried to focus his attention on something else, anything else.

He was bored. This kidnapping business had gotten old after about the first ten hours. Marik spent hours on end coming to grips with the situation and planning possible escapes, and that was basically it. Other than that he took things as they came, but so far not much had happened. Bakura came and went, largely ignored him, made empty threats, sometimes confused Marik by asking if he needed anything, and the boy just stayed in the room.

Marik wondered how long it had been now. He'd been sleeping a lot, since he was still sick and didn't have much else to do, and he'd lost track of days. Had it been days? It all seemed like a wearily long, jumbled mess, and Marik couldn't think of it in terms of days. What time was it? He never knew anymore. The light reaching through the cracks between the boards on the window told him that it wasn't nighttime, but that was the most accuracy he could hope for.

He closed his eyes. He didn't want to sleep, he was tired of sleep, but he still felt like he needed to rest.

While he lied there, he thought about his family, as he often did since this whole thing had started. He mostly though about Rishid. Oh_ God_, Rishid. When had his friend found out that he was kidnapped? How had he heard about it? Marik couldn't trust that his father had bothered to call any of their relatives and tell them what had happened. Rishid must have either heard about it at school or on the news, or maybe from his parents if they'd learned it first. And what about Isis? Did she know? Off at college, busy with her own life, had she heard about it? Did their father bother to tell her, at least? Marik wished he could see his family again. He wished he could tell them that he was alright, that he missed them, that he was sorry that this had happened. He wished he could tell Rishid how much he cared about him, how much his friendship, especially after everything that had happened, meant to him. He wanted to tell Isis that he loved her and that he forgave her. He wanted to tell his father . . .

_'Father . . . '_

It was sad—Marik didn't know why, but that's how he thought he should feel—that at his most self-aware, at his most sincere, he couldn't think of a single word he'd like to say to his father.

Marik could imagine how most people had reacted to finding out that he'd been kidnapped. Isis had cried. Rishid felt absolutely terrible, most likely found some way to blame himself, and he'd cried. His teachers, the people he'd gone to school with, Rishid's other friends that he'd barely been acquainted with, they were horrified that this had happened to someone they knew. They didn't cry, though.

His father? Marik couldn't guess how how it had affected him; his father was too unpredictable. Marik was _afraid_ to guess. A part of him was a little too pleased about the idea of his father being tormented by his loss, but he couldn't convince himself that it was true.

Marik jumped, snatched from his thoughts by the sound of a the garage door opening.

_'Crap!' _He fumbled with the handcuffs as he tried to wriggle his hand back into the bonds. Even though Bakura rarely came into the room, Marik kept the cuffs on whenever he was in the house just to be safe.

The door in the kitchen opened and shut, and Bakura headed into the hallway. His footsteps were loud on the hardwood floor, and they were coming closer. They stopped outside Marik's room, the handle on the door jiggled, and Marik's heart threatened to leap out of his chest. _'No!' _Bakura shouldn't be coming to the room! Marik was still struggling to get the cuff over his thumb. Bakura couldn't come in yet!

There wasn't time. Marik threw himself on his back and placed his arms under his head like he was using them as a pillow, hoping to hide the fact that his restraints were just about falling off his wrist.

Bakura cursed and kicked the stubborn door open. "Stupid fucking . . . " He kicked it again out of spite and then turned to Marik. He crossed his arms across his chest and stood there as if he was waiting for something. "Well?"

"Well what?" Marik kept his voice calm, terse, and prayed to whoever might be listening that Bakura wouldn't notice anything strange.

Bakura wasn't going to ask again, and he certainly wasn't going to be nice about it. "I don't know if you need something unless you tell me."

"You want to know what I need?" Marik gave him a dirty look. It was infuriating that Bakura pretended to care about his well-being while being so blatantly ignorant about what all that entailed. "I need _lots_ of things. I need to eat and drink, for one, and more than just occasionally."

"Oh," Bakura said calmly. "Right." He looked as if he'd honestly forgotten about that, which he probably had.

"I need to go to the bathroom. Not at this very moment, I already used the bowl, but that's another thing that I'll need to do pretty frequently."

The thief grimaced at the bowl that used to have soup in it, now set beside the bed and filled with a very different kind of liquid. "That's disgusting. I'm not touching that."

"I also need to take a shower. And do other things, like brush my teeth and stuff like that."

God, it was like he was having to take care of a sick puppy. If that puppy could talk; Bakura couldn't decide whether the talking overall made things better or worse. He leaned against the wall and took a second to think before asking, "So, what is it that you need to do right now?"

Marik paused and considered the question. To feel cold water pouring over him, to feel clean, was most appealing at the moment, and he figured he could wait a few more minutes until he could get something in his stomach. "I want to take a shower first."

"Alright," Bakura said, moving towards him. "Get up."

"Wait!" He stopped and eyed the boy curiously. "I changed my mind. I want to eat first." Though annoyed by Marik's indecisiveness, Bakura didn't seem suspicious. He walked out of the room grumbling curses to himself, completely unawares as Marik got back into the handcuffs. He came back moments later with a glass of water and more white pills.

"Soup's heating up. Take some more medicine."

"I can take a shower while the soup is getting hot."

"Make up your mind, already," he growled.

Marik swallowed the pills along with every last drop of water and Bakura let him out of the handcuffs. The thief took him by the arm and led him to the bathroom, shoved him inside, and closed the door. The bathroom had no lock, so Bakura stayed nearby to keep watch, only moving away every now and again to check the stove. After several minutes the soup started to boil and Bakura turned the burner off. He then brought a chair from the dinning room, sat himself in the hallway just outside the bathroom, and waited.

Meanwhile, Marik took his time and enjoyed his shower as much as he as able to. He could complain that the tub was stained and rusty, that the water pressure and temperature were inconsistent, or that the pipes rattled too loudly. He could complain about any number of things—that he wasn't able to use his own shampoo, because this wasn't his shower, because this wasn't his house, because he wasn't able to go to his house and use his shower and his shampoo because he was being held against his will. But he focused on little, positive things. The soothing hum and sensation of the running water. The fact that there was shampoo, and that he was getting clean. And, after everything he'd been through, he felt refreshed.

There was a small cabinet above the toilet with towels for him when he finished his shower. He grabbed one before opening the door.

Marik appeared before Bakura, dripping and naked except for the towel that he held around his waist. Bakura, feeling more frustrated than he thought he should, and in more ways than one, made it a point to look nowhere below Marik's face. "You're supposed to put your clothes back on afterwards."

"I'm not wearing dirty clothes after I just washed up."

"Well . . . " he scowled and turned away. "Fine. I'll get you some clothes. Until then, I . . . I guess I can find something."

Bakura loaned him some of his own clothes, and Marik shut the door again to change. Bakura pressed his back to the wall and attempted to shamefully wipe the image of the teenager's bare, wet body from his mind.

The clothes that Bakura had given to Marik smelled like smoke, burning sand, and laundry soap. It wasn't altogether unpleasant, and yet it was, because Marik was having to wear these clothes that smelled like someone else, these clothes that smelled like his kidnapper. The scent filled his nose, and he cursed it.

Afterwards, Bakura took him back to the room, put him back in his handcuffs, fed him, and left. He stayed in the house for the rest of the afternoon, but Marik had thought he'd looked more annoyed than usual and figured he'd had enough of him for that day. Even though he assumed Bakura wouldn't be coming back to the room any time that night, Marik didn't slip out of the handcuffs. He finished his soup and lied down, immersing himself in all he really had at the moment, his own thoughts.

The sound of the television droned on late into the night. Or, what Marik assumed was late at night. Bakura made little noise, but Marik heard every noise he made. He heard every trip to the kitchen, every footfall, every door. He didn't really pay much attention to them, unless he was extremely bored by the endless minutes that crept on and his own thoughts enough to do so.

The light that peeked through the boards on the window had been gone for many hours by the time Bakura turned off the TV. His footsteps sounded from down the hall, stomping and staggering their way to Marik's door. The doorknob started to jiggle, and Marik sat up. Why was his kidnapper coming into his room now, so late at night? There was something that felt very wrong about this.

Bakura shoved the door open, catching himself against it when he stumbled inside. Marik backed towards the other side of the room, edging as far away from Bakura as he could while still being handcuffed to the bed. He didn't like the way that the thief was looking at him. "Why are you . . . "

"Shut up," Bakura snapped. "Your voice is annoying." The man shuffled over to the bed and collapsed on to it face first.

"You're drunk," Marik said flatly.

"Yeah, well!" The voice was muffled by the bed sheet. "Who's fault is that?"

" . . . Yours."

"I said _shaddup!_" The louder that he raised his voice, the more slurred his words became. "God, you're—you're—I can't stand you, you know that? First of all, why are you sick? Don't you know how to fuckin' take care of yourself? And, you . . . you shouldn't have been home anyway. I mean, come on, don't be a bitch. This is _your_ fault. Everything!" His hands were pawing idly at the sheet while he rambled on. He turned his head up to glare at Marik. "You're so fucking stupid. I hate you so much. You wanna know what I was doing earlier? Earlier . . . "

Marik really couldn't care less, and the stench of alcohol on Bakura's breath was sickening. He really just wanted the man to leave.

"I was looking for a place to hide your body for when I kill you," the thief said with a dry laugh. Marik tensed. "There aren't many remote places around here, but there's this place. There's some trees over by the . . . the fucking . . . you know what I'm talking about?" The boy started to wonder if Bakura even knew exactly what he was talking about. "Or I could always just burn your body . . . "

He started to mumble to himself, and Marik could no longer follow what he was saying. "Are you . . . " he asked carefully, "are you really going to kill me?"

His kidnapper bobbed his head to say, "No," and then immediately let it drop back to the mattress. "God damn you . . . no . . . "

Marik wasn't sure how truthful this confession was, but it made him wonder.

The man suddenly jumped up to a kneeling position beside Marik and started shouting. "God, I can't _stand_ you! Why don't you just die on your own, save me the trouble!"

Marik had his back pressed against the wire frame at the head of the bed, as far as he could get. His legs were pulled up with his knees tucked under his chin. Bakura leaned over into Marik's personal space, leaving a mere few inches between their faces. He started wobbling and placed a hand on Marik's leg to steady himself. His other hand reached for Marik's chin, gripping it with thumb and forefinger.

"I hate looking at you," he said. "Your stupid . . . face. And your eyes. Stupid. Your stupid fucking hair." His thumb brushed against Marik's lips and his hand slid slowly up Marik's leg, sending a violent shiver down the boy's spine. "You are so . . . "

No. This was too much. No, no, _no!_ Was this really happening? The sensible voice in Marik's head urged him to stop this, but he was unsure of what to do. Bakura was leering at him with heavy-lidded, glazed eyes shadowed by white hair that was more disheveled than usual. Too frightened, acting on impulse, Marik delivered a brutal kick to the thief's stomach.

"_Oof!_" The man doubled over and let out a strangled grunt. "Fucking shit! God . . . " He crawled off the bed, clutching his middle, moaning in pain. "I'll kill you, you . . . just wait until morning. _I'll kill you_."

The door slammed shut behind Bakura, and Marik waited for the noise of the turning lock. He heard Bakura's footsteps resound in the hall as he went to his room. Marik sat forward. Was that it? No lock? Did Bakura really forget? He waited nervously, wrestling the matter in his mind. Bakura was surely drunk enough to forget. Was he drunk enough for Marik to sneak away? Would he need to wait until he fell asleep?

Marik fidgeted with the handcuffs, waiting uncertainly.

He listened to the muffled sounds of Bakura talking to himself from the other room and the return of the footsteps.

_'No! Don't come back!' _

Bakura stopped by the door again, locked it, and retreated back down the hall. Marik sat still on the bed, staring at the door helplessly. He squeezed his eyes shut and sank back into the bed. He couldn't do this. He couldn't lie here and wait like this. There had to be something else he could do.

_'Maybe . . . '_ He thought about what just happened, what he'd barely gotten out of, and wondered what it meant and if, somehow, this could be his advantage.

* * *

**This chapter made me**** realize that I am very good at taking things that in any other story would be sexy and/or cute and writing them very the opposite (e.g., Bakura seeing Marik practically naked, Marik wearing Bakura's clothes) . . .**

**Special thanks to Yami-The-Dark for Beta reading this chapter!**


	5. Chapter 5

**People usually either like or really, really hate OC's. Me, personally, I tend to hate them. The only reason there is an OC in this story is because I couldn't imagine any of the other Yugioh character fitting the role. (Unless it's for crack, I don't like writing characters OOC). Lorne is only a supporting character, so that's a plus. And, though I'm biased, I actually like him, and I like the way he and Bakura play off each other. Hopefully, he doesn't put anyone off.**

**Yay, long chapter!**

* * *

"Hello?"

"Hello, Lorne."

" . . . Who is this?"

"Well, let's think. Who knows that your real name is Lorne?"

"This _sounds_ like Touzoku, but that's impossible."

"Why is that?"

"Because you hate me."

"What ever gave you that idea?"

"I don't know. I must have just assumed, you know, after the multiple times that you told me you hate me."

Bakura smirked. "I'm calling because I need your help."

There was a long pause. "Come again?"

"Well, I wanted to ask you for advice."

"That's . . . what is this about?"

"I can't say over the phone. Where do you want to meet?"

"Hold on, hold on. Why would you be asking for my help? More importantly, what makes you think I'm actually willing?"

"I don't give a shit if you're willing, you'll still help me."

"Oh, really? And why would I do that?"

"Because I know what kind of business you're involved in."

Lorne shot back with, "I know what you're involved in, too."

"Yeah," Bakura said teasingly. "The difference, though, is that I can prove it. I could very easily have the police at your door by the end of the day."

The line was quiet for a while. "Alright," he said with a sigh. "You win."

"Of course I do."

Lorne gave him the name of a coffee shop not too far away before they hung up. Bakura breathed a sigh as he leaned back in his chair away from the dinning room table, running his fingers through his unkempt hair. This was far from ideal, but he had run out of ideas. On his own, he'd only been able to come up with two options: kill Marik, or keep him locked up. Since Bakura could do neither, he'd been forced to consider seeking an objective opinion. The only questions he'd had to ask himself was, who did he know, and who could he trust?

Bakura didn't have anything close to a friend, and he didn't have any family left. There was just a small circle of people that he begrudgingly associated with, none of whom he trusted. Probably because they were all liars and criminals like him. Since Bakura had no one he could rely on, the next best thing to look for would be someone he could blackmail. This had shortened the list of potentials considerably, because most of the people he knew were people he did business with and didn't want to cross.

Then there was Lorne.

The two of them hadn't spoken in years. Bakura was surprised that he still had the man's number, and even more surprised that it still worked. When he'd called, he wasn't fully certain that Lorne was still working, but he'd taken a guess. He hadn't been dishonest when he'd said that he could send Lorne to prison. Not exactly. If his guess was correct, then there should be more than enough evidence lying around the man's house that could be stolen and handed over to the police. Lorne had taken the threat to heart, which convinced Bakura that he hadn't given up his less-than-legal projects.

Bakura stopped in Marik's room before he left that morning. He found the boy fast asleep and felt his forehead. The fever must have broken during the night, because his temperature had gone down significantly. He was getting better.

Moving quickly, Bakura grabbed his black coat and went to his car. He hopped into the driver seat and a stabbing pain shot through his body. "_Fuck!_" His hand gripped his side and felt the handle of a screwdriver through the fabric. He'd forgotten to take it out of his pocket after looking at that house. His bump keys too. He flung both of them to the back seat angrily and rolled out of the driveway.

He reached the coffee shop within the hour. It wasn't too busy, but there were a few customers inside, trudging along until their morning dose of caffeine had a chance to enliven them. One young man with a mop of unruly brown hair and bristly chin, dressed in a dark blue military jacket, stood at the counter to order. Bakura lined up behind him. The man took notice, tossing a glance over his shoulder and grinning.

"Well. It really is you," he said in a low tone. "I honestly never thought I'd have to see your face again."

On Bakura's part, he'd never wanted to see him again. His dislike for Lorne had little to nothing to do with how the man made his money, or the circumstances under which they'd first become acquainted, or the kinds of people that he chose to profit from. No, Bakura didn't consider him any more dissolute than he did himself. The reason he hadn't spoken to him in so long was simply because Lorne annoyed him. A lot.

Bakura waited for him to get his order, and then the two went outside behind the building to talk privately.

"So," Lorne began, crossing his ankles and taking a sip of his drink. "What is it that's got you so desperate that you came crawling to me for help?"

Bakura scowled. "Well . . . I have this kid . . . "

He choked and slapped a hand over his mouth as his coffee threatened to spill down his shirt. "_What? _You have a_ kid_?!"

"He's not _my_ kid!" Bakura's face turned red. "I just sort of . . . acquired him."

"What does _that_ mean?"

He sighed. "He was in one of the houses. He was a witness. So, I took him."

Lorne's expression grew uncharacteristically stern. "When did this happen?"

"Three days ago."

"Why are you trying to drag me into this?"

"I still fucking have him!" Bakura was losing what little patience he had. "He's back at my house, right now! He's locked up in one of the bedrooms."

Lorne stared hard. The situation seemed to have thrown him off balance, and it took him a few moments to let the gravity of it all sink in. Then, just when Bakura believed that he was going treat the matter with due seriousness and deliberation, he broke out in a huge grin and started laughing. It started out as a soft chuckle and grew until he was bending over and hugging his sides, howling like a hyena. Bakura crossed his arms and gave him his most icy glare, but he hardly paid attention. "Sorry, sorry," he said when he finally forced himself upright and wiped his eyes. "This is just too funny."

Bakura was not amused. "Are you going to help or not?"

"What kind of help do you need?"

Bakura lit up a cigarette and took a long drag while he considered how he could explain it. It shouldn't really need an explanation; Bakura had just thought that, since Lorne was familiar with much darker workings and people than he was, those experiences might offer more creative measures than Bakura could invent. "If you were in my position, what would you do?"

"I'd kill him."

Bakura was shocked to hear him say that, and so nonchalantly. "Really?"

"Yeah," Lorne said with a shrug. "That or sell him."

"Sell him?"

"Yeah, you know. Sex trafficking."

"Fuck!" That was one possibility that had never crossed his mind, and it was repulsive. Bakura, as corrupted as he was, wouldn't wish that kind of life for anyone, and someone like Marik would never survive in that world. He was too attractive, and far too innocent. "I'm not doing either of those things."

He put on an apologetic front. "Then I'm afraid I can't help you."

"Come on, there has to be some other way." Marik couldn't stay with him. That was decidedly not an option.

"Well, how far are you willing to go?" Lorne took a step forward and looked him dead in the eye. "There isn't anything you can do to protect yourself _and_ protect that boy. One of you is going to suffer."

"I don't care about protecting him, I care about getting rid of him."

"Oh, really?" He had a knowing glint in his eyes. "Then how come he's still alive?"

"I steal," Bakura insisted. "That's all I do. I'm not a murderer."

"Give him to me, then."

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What the hell do you want with him?"

Lorne grinned. "Why do you care?"

"Call me curious."

"You better be careful, Touzoku," he said with a laugh. "You might develop Stockholm Syndrome."

"Lima Syndrome, idiot," Bakura spat.

He scrunched his eyebrows together. "I thought Stockholm Syndrome was the one where they fall in love."

"It's Stockholm for the victim, Lima for the kidnapper. And it isn't love. That's only in shit romances. It's when you start to identify with them, sympathize with them."

"Oh, well," his smile was taunting, "if it's sympathy, then I think you already have it."

"I . . . " Bakura was ready to dispute the claim. It was utterly ridiculous, of course, until he really started to think about it. Urgency was fading, panic had subsided. The teen was still a nuisance to him, but he felt no gratification from seeing him frightened and hurting. And, as much as Bakura wanted to be rid of him, he realized he couldn't imagine inflicting any severe harm on Marik. "God dammit," he hissed. Whether a psychological phenomenon or his own humanity was at work didn't matter. Either way, it left him without a choice.

A smug look placed itself on Lorne's face. Bakura glowered back at him.

"Weren't you supposed to be helping?"

He threw up his hands defensively. "Hey, I offered my advice."

"Murder and slavery are the only things you could come up with?"

"They're two perfectly viable options."

Bakura clacked his tongue in disgust. "Why the fuck did I even call you?"

He looked down at his coffee while he stirred it up by gently shaking it. "I know people that could be a big help in getting rid of your problem. I can tell you how to contact them."

The more he thought on it, the more Bakura realized that this was a mistake. He shook his head and turned to leave. "Don't bother."

The half-hearted words of consolation that Lorne spoke as he walked away were tuned out. Bakura didn't care that Lorne said he could come to him for help anytime, either. He had no more help to give.

Bakura went back home feeling bitter and sullen. His stomach was wrenched. He tried to get his mind off of his problems, but there was no escaping it. He was trapped. Trapped by his own damn weaknesses.

He inched his car into the garage and closed the door behind him. Before going inside, he reached into the backseat and retrieved his screwdriver and bump keys, putting them back in his pocket.

As soon as he went inside, before he had the chance to even remove his coat, a bloodcurdling scream shook the house. Bakura raced to Marik's room and threw the door open. Marik was facing away from him, propped up on his elbows like he'd just woken from a dream. The boy must have been hot, because the shirt that Bakura had let him borrow had been tossed aside and was lying on the floor, and Marik's exposed back was in full view. Bakura cringed at the sight. Scars, a carving in intricate detail, like someone had used his body as a slate, covered every inch. Marik turned to look at him, his beautiful eyes full of pain.

"Why did you scream?" Bakura asked, feeling a lump in his throat.

"Sorry . . . I had a nightmare."

"What are you, six years old?" It came out more harshly than he meant it.

Marik glared at him and turned away. "Forget it."

He couldn't help but stare at his back. "What is that?"

"Nothing." Marik knew what he was referring to, and he clearly didn't want to discuss it.

"It doesn't look like nothing. Are those hieroglyphics?" Marik sat up, put his back against the wire frame at the head of the bed so that Bakura could no longer see, and faced the boarded window. "What does it mean?"

"Does it really matter?"

Bakura didn't respond.

Marik stole a glance at him out of the corner of his eye, searching the man's face to see if his plan was working. He had to tread carefully. If he appeared too open it would be suspicious, but if he closed up completely Bakura would get fed up and leave. His scars had succeeded in catching Bakura's interest, and the man sat down beside him on the edge of the bed.

"What was your nightmare about?"

He'd lied about having a nightmare, but what were his nightmares always about?

"Just, um . . . I . . . "

It was more difficult than he'd imagined, trying to say it aloud after all this time. Marik couldn't force it out. "I-it . . . " Bakura was waiting, but no words were coming.

Marik's pulse raced and his stomach clenched. If he couldn't say anything, Bakura would leave. He had to make Bakura pity him, or else this would be pointless. If this didn't work, there was only one other option, and he didn't want to have to resort to that.

_'Just say something! Say anything!' _He tried to make something up, but now all he could think about was what he saw at night the only times he ever dreamed. He didn't really know any other kind of nightmare, anything else seemed ridiculous by comparison. Bakura was staring at him strangely. Dark memories flooded his mind, overpowering him. He was shaking. His mouth hung open, but the only thing that passed from it was frantic panting.

"What's wrong?" Bakura asked, alarmed by how Marik was so rapidly breaking down in front of him.

It was all going wrong. This was so stupid. He should be able to control himself better than this. He couldn't mess this up. He didn't know why he was falling apart, and he couldn't stop it.

Bakura leaned towards him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Are you . . . are you crying?" Marik fought the tears that tried to spill down his cheeks and the sobs that were breaking from his throat with all his might. "Why are you crying?"

"I don't know," he said, his voice cracking.

This was horrible. This was humiliating. And yet, things seemed to be going better than Marik had planned. Bakura—awkward, obliged to give some sort of comfort—moved closer to Marik and wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

The man sighed, confused by the whole situation, not fully understanding what he was doing or what it would accomplish. He just held Marik close and hoped the boy would stop crying, all the while trying to deny actuality. No, he wasn't really _hugging_ Marik, and Marik _wasn't_ half naked, and even if that was the case there was nothing sensual about it. Nothing whatsoever.

Marik allowed Bakura to hug him and ignored the urge to pull away. He didn't like it, but he had to play up the sympathy, because that was one of the few cards he had. He hadn't yet figured out where it would lead to, but he was doing the only thing he could think of. This was necessary, so he would endure being touched and held against the man's firm chest. At least it prevented him from shaking so much. He concentrated on regaining control of his breathing, and he began to calm down.

A burning was growing in his chest that felt like fear. Marik noticed it getting stronger as he grew quiet, once he'd bitten back his sniveling. This had been a mistake. He shouldn't have let Bakura get this close to him. He wriggled out from the man's grasp and scooted away. The thief gave him a questioning look, but he didn't speak. Marik felt his face heat up from embarrassment and he had to turn his eyes away. So much for his brilliant plan. In his efforts to make Bakura believe that he was pathetic and defenseless, he'd come to realize the despicable truth behind his deception.

They both sat there, not moving, not speaking. The tension was still too heavy in the air for them to do any of that. Marik's gaze bore a hole in the bed sheet. Then, something captured his attention. Something sleek and metal. Something that was sticking out of Bakura's pocket.

It was a flat-head screwdriver. Marik's eyes went wide.

Bakura rubbed the back of his neck. "Well . . . " He stood to leave.

"Wait," Marik said suddenly, grabbing his arm.

"What is it?"

"I just . . . " His thoughts were whirring. He tried not to stare too openly at the screwdriver. "I . . . I wanted to thank you."

Bakura was taken aback. "_Thank_ me?"

"You've been being so nice to me lately."

A tinge of pink crept across Bakura's cheeks and he snatched his arm away. "I fucking kidnapped you. Don't go thanking me." He turned towards the door.

"Wait! I . . . " How could he get the screwdriver without Bakura noticing? "I . . . " Maybe he should make himself cry again. Bakura was growing impatient, and Marik had to come up with something. "Stay a little bit longer."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"I don't want to be alone right now."

Bakura studied the boy's face. This was strange. Marik shouldn't be talking like this. He shouldn't be wanting him around. Maybe Bakura really had been acting too nice, maybe it was for the best if Marik stayed afraid of him, because this certainly wasn't good. They couldn't be familiar. That just wouldn't work. When did Marik stop hating him, anyway? And why? Bakura was still holding him against his will. That much had not changed. It was possible, Bakura thought, that Marik was experiencing some degree of Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe he'd started feeling sympathy, similarly to him. Or, more likely, he was still shaken up from the episode he'd just had and honestly needed someone. And unfortunately for him, the only person available was Bakura.

After what had just happened, and seeing the pleading look in the boy's bright, violet eyes, Bakura found it difficult to leave Marik, even if he didn't understand why he'd been asked to stay. He made a show of grumbling and griping, but ultimately he gave in and sat at the head of the bed next to Marik.

Surprised that his act was working, relieved that he'd bought some time, and nervous about whatever was going to happen next, Marik focused on the screwdriver sticking out of Bakura's right side pocket. It was right there, within his reach. The thief was at the edge of the bed with his back to Marik. The boy's heart pounded in his skull as he stretched out his hand.

"I read something the other day," Bakura said without turning around. Marik stopped for a moment. "Something from some news site. In this country alone, about 800,000 people are reported missing every year. More than 2,000 every day."

Marik said nothing. He slowly reached out further.

"This is a 'stereotypical' kidnapping, even though only 115 of those 800,000 cases are what people consider to be stereotypical. A good 40 percent of those 115 kids are killed within the first twenty-four hours." He gave a humorless chuckle. "Either you're incredibly lucky, or I'm incredibly stupid." The tips of Marik's fingers were inches away from the head of the screwdriver when Bakura turned his head. He looked over his left shoulder and saw Marik leaning towards him, the boy's free arm wrapping around him. Thinking fast, Marik bypassed Bakura's pocket and snaked his arm around the man's middle, attempting to pull him closer.

Bakura practically fell into Marik, being not so much scooted towards the boy as being forced to lie down against him. Marik latched on to him and nestled his head in the crook of his neck.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Bakura asked. He could feel warm breath creeping down his collar.

Marik wasn't really sure what he was doing, because he'd never tried to seduce anyone before. He felt slightly ridiculous and wondered if he was doing it right. Things would probably be easier if his left hand wasn't twisted behind him and secured to the bed frame. Nothing to do but roll with it now, though. He trailed his one useful hand up the theif's stomach and across his chest, whispering in his ear, "Uncuff me and find out."

Bakura's eyes popped open and his face turned bright red. "_Let go_," he demanded as he tore himself from Marik's grip. This was _not_ happening. Marik was just a kid! He sprung from the bed, so vehement that he didn't notice Marik's sleight of hand, or that the weight in his right side pocket was just a bit lighter. He escaped the house and took to the street for a walk until he cooled off.

Marik was alone, ecstatic, the screwdriver hidden under the blanket until he was sure that Bakura was gone. After that, there was no time to lose. He didn't know how long it would be until Bakura realized what had happened, and he wanted to be as far away as possible when that time came. His hands were shaking as he worked his way out of the handcuffs. With the tool in his hands it was simple enough to remove the doorknob and pull back the bolt from the strike plate. It took a few minutes. Then he just had to hold the latch until he could jerk the door open. As soon as he did, he ran. He ran to the front door and tore it open. He only paused momentarily on the porch to make sure that Bakura wasn't in sight.

He didn't know which direction Bakura had gone, but he had a fifty percent chance of choosing the opposite and he took it. The sun was bright and warm, though the air was chilled, and Marik wondered how long it had been since he'd been outside. It felt like it had been forever.

His chest heaved as he ran down the unfamiliar street. He didn't know where he was or where he was going. He slowed down and tried to think, but his mind was in chaos. His legs were unsteady and every instinct told him to keep running, but he had to take a moment to collect himself. What was he going to do now?

He should go to a house. Any house, it didn't matter. Knock on the door, explain to whoever answered what was going on, tell them to call the police. The police would come, they would arrest Bakura, and then they would take Marik home.

Home . . . ?

Stopping on the sidewalk before a house he selected at random, he felt his insides knot together. He was going to go home? His knees wanted to buckle under him. What was he doing? He wasn't really escaping anything. He was simply trading one prison for another in a never ending cycle of misery. No, he wouldn't go home. He would go somewhere else. Somewhere he could really be free, happy.

Looking down one side of the street and then the other, Marik found the block was still clear. He dashed to the porch and rang the doorbell, looking over his shoulder constantly. He needed to get off the street before Bakura came back. His thoughts continued racing while he waited for someone to answer. He _should_ call the police, but they would take him home. What was he going to do? Where could he go so that he didn't have to go home?

A girl around his age opened the door and greeted him with a wary manner. Marik's mouth went dry. What should he tell her?

_'Just tell her the truth.'_

He swallowed hesitation.

* * *

**Anyone watch Fargo? Cause that's where I first heard the name Lorne. Though my OC isn't based on the Lorne from the TV show, I did think the name was cool enough to use it.**

**I didn't explicitly state what Lorne actually does in this chapter, but it will be discussed later in the story. I'll give you this hint: despite his being a tiny bit crazy, he doesn't normally involve himself in the really dark stuff that was alluded to in this chapter. He just makes it easier for other people to get away with that sort of thing.**

**The statistics that Bakura talks about are outdated and probably have changed. This was just something I found on CNN's website.**

**Poor Marik! I'm putting him through a lot of crap. I've made him feel like crying several times in this story, and now I made him have a full-blown emotional breakdown. I legitimately feel bad about what I'm doing to him. :( Let's turn things around in the next chapter, shall we? I wanna write more of over-confident, smart-ass Marik; sorry, tortured Marik, you're important too, but he's more fun.**

**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed/followed/favorited thus far. It makes me very happy and motivates me to write more. :D  
**

**Once again, thank you Yami-The-Dark for being the beta.**


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